


today's plan

by thasmins



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/F, Smut, wade wilson gets a shoutout shsjsjsjsjsj, yaz done got a bob and the dr who is THIRSTY
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-09
Updated: 2018-11-09
Packaged: 2019-08-21 04:17:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16569491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thasmins/pseuds/thasmins
Summary: It’s not that the Doctor gets distracted by her all time—she is a brilliant police officer, too good for the people who work with her—but today, Yaz had done away half the length of her long, majestically flowing hair and treated the ends with blonde balayage.





	today's plan

**Author's Note:**

> GAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYY SPACE LESBIANS
> 
> (i have like five nsfw thasmin prompts all unfinished lmaooooo fuck)

The plan today was to watch Deadpool 2 when it’s first launched. Ryan’s lightbulb went off and hatched this idea because he still felt bitter when he couldn’t go to the theatre with his mates; NVQ classes, man, he had said.

And no, the Doctor wasn’t against the violent aspects of the film. In fact, they pretty much love Deadpool as much as Ryan does. They know Wade Wilson well  from a parallel universe; kinda miss him, though. He’s exceptionally good at getting them off. 

Well, they both fancied each other from the moment their eyes made contact. They didn’t mind the concept of having sex, but they were, at the time, timid about actually performing the mutualistic task. Wade was a sweetheart, but they’re pretty sure that he also wanted to check off  _ fucking an alien  _ on his bucket list, despite the fact that he’s an immortal asshole/assassin. That’s a story to tell another time, maybe when Graham isn’t accompanied with them.

The movie itself is on-point with Wade’s personality. What a proper dick he is. Yukio and Ellie aren’t shown much, but they have to remind themselves that this is Wade’s movie because around this time, they were having a cuppa with the cute couple. And also helping some mutants in the past, of course.

However, they couldn’t focus on the big cinema screen at all. Someone else’s occupying their mind the entire time.

Just next to them, Yaz is watching Yukio’s electric manipulating powers while slowly munching on a thick bag of candy floss. It’s not that the Doctor gets distracted by her all time—she is a brilliant police officer, too good for the people who work with her—but today, Yaz had done away half the length of her long, majestically flowing hair and treated the ends with blonde balayage. 

The Doctor doesn’t know if hair’s a new  _ preference  _ (mind you, trichophilia exists) of theirs. However, Yaz is basically just flaunting her radiant beauty without any effort and certainly not with sinful intentions. Wait, did they just think—?

“—tor!” Yaz’s whispering to them. The Doctor blinks several times, biting the inside of their cheeks in embarrassment. “Hey, sorry, I’m gonna go to bathroom for a sec. Is that alright?”

Bathroom. Right. That’s good. Why’s it good? No, those are bad thoughts. 

The Doctor’s senses are overwhelmed by just the simple glance from their friend. 

“Yeah, sure, can I go with you?” the words blurt out of their mouth before they could choke them back.

Yaz’s face makes a double-take; the Doctor thinks they’re fucked. 

Oh shit, oh shit, ohshitnopethatdidnotjusthap—

“Sure,” Yaz responds, voice a bit too loud as several other watchers glare at the two of them. “Okay!” she then mouths.

Yaz straightens up, a fluid motion that the Doctor takes too much notice in; especially when, ugh, the shape of her exposed ample thighs move so elegantly, and the sudden thought of being choked by them—

And then Yaz’s hand falls on their own, with a firm hold, pulls them up, and suddenly, they’re walking off the auditorium. If the Doctor wasn’t panicking then, then they’re having this moment now.

The bathroom has multiple stalls, all of which are, thankfully, empty (so they wouldn’t have to be more embarrassed in public, duh). Yaz, however, heads for the sinks, and the Doctor leans forward against its granite surface. The reflection trapped in the mirror right in front of them stares back dumbfoundedly. It’s mocking them.

They twist the handle of the faucet and watch as the water rushes down from the spout. Attempting to focus on the rushing sound, the Doctor tries to depollute their mind of Yaz thoughts. The image of the girl touching their hand, brushing another along their cheek, tugging their braces so as to close in the remaining space between them, her breaths reaching their skin, their lips so close to one another—

“Hey, Doc?” 

Fucking hell. They stared too long again.

“Sorry, what?”

But Yaz giggles, a good kind, where her smile widens enough, and it’s probably the cutest thing the Doctor’s ever seen. “Do you know what lipstick is?” she asks.

Of course they would know. They spent centuries falling for the same old paralysing kiss from a certain archaeologist that happened to marry them after attempting kill them.

“Er, yeah, I know about that stuff.” 

Yaz grins again, and it’s hard not to focus on her lips, which are now coated in a shade of red that would’ve sent the Doctor reeling if their flesh made contact with it. 

And so Yaz takes a step closer, close enough so the space between them is almost suffocating, and then—

The feeling of a spongy texture hits their lips, and it takes them a second to realise that Yaz is painting the same lip colour on their own. The way she draws on the curve on the lip is hypnotising from both perspectives; like painter to her own art.

“There,” says Yaz, taking another glance at the pigmented lips, “you do look dashing in red.”

The Doctor stares in wonder—the crimson coating over where the usual pale pinkish colour used to be pops out, blessing them a more elegant look, though out of place. They feel naked compared to the severeness of the shade, from their bare face and their usual idiosyncratic getup—it’s like they stepped into the 1950s and tried to fit in with the white housewives from the time.

“Yaz,” they stutter on her name, because now they know how she feels wearing this colour, how River felt this—

An unknown force pushes the Doctor up against the wall in a bat of an eye; their head smacks the hard, cold tiled surface, and a light dizzy spell renders them addled. With little focus still in hold, they take notice of their pinned wrists, held in a death grip by tawny brown hands with freshly painted lavender nail colour. As lingering hazel eyes travelled, the sight of Yaz’s slightly cocked head, donning a focused gaze, brown eyes trained to the Doctor’s own lips—never mind that, the important detail to notice is that her body is literally  _ pressed _ against their  _ own _ .

Yasmin Khan’s own eyes, own lips, own chest, own arms—all up against their own trembling, needing body.

Her head draws near, close enough so her breath tickles the helix of their ear. 

“You’ve been staring at me since the beginning of the film, Doctor,” she whispers, and it’s in a raspy voice that causes their own bones to tremble, more of excitement than fear, “if you just wanted to see me, all you had to do was ask.”

“Yaz—” their own voice betrays them, unable to even form the simplest of words, and of course, they couldn’t depend on their own native tongue.

The wild, predatory smirk on Yaz’s blood red lips says it all. “Doc, you can’t lie to me,” she states. The stomp of her foot opens up the Doctor’s legs, and she pulls their wrists higher to provide balance. She’s gotten a knee up their crotch, forcing a small sound out of the trembling Time Lord. “Shh, it’s okay. We’ve both been waiting for this moment, eh?”

And she waits for the Doctor’s own response. It comes in a form of a tiny nod, along with heavy breaths.

Yaz’s lips close in on their own; it happens in short, ephemeral moments, but the impact of it leaves the Doctor both wanting more and testing their own patience. When they push a bit further into the kiss, Yaz pulls back and bites into their lower lip in a surprise attack, shutting up a yelp of pain and also leaving a lasting bruise. It isn’t as harsh as anything they’ve endured with River or Missy, but it’s clearly shown that Yaz’s authoritative side of her personality demands obedience. 

It makes them wonder of their own future of something more private, only to their own knowledge.

Yaz draws away from the Doctor’s skin again. The hunger in her eyes is raw with need. “We’ve only got ten minutes until the end of the movie,” she informs in that same raspy, seductive voice. “Surely, you can come before then?”

And she says this as if it’s already happened. The Doctor knows what’s to come, but the knee between their legs is incapacitating their own comprehensive abilities, leaving them a stuttering mess, if they could even manage getting a sound out. 

One hand latches on their left shoulder—the sensitive one, it can leave the Doctor paralysed if the impact is correct—and the other tugs down braces deftly, a boast of her own undoing skills. But she’s not just showing off, no—the Doctor’s lingering eyes were slowly driving her to the edge until  _ finally  _ they somehow got the message that she’s so fucking attracted to them, especially when in Tsuranga, their back pressed against her front, short-circuiting her brain.

The Doctor’s heavy breathing excites her, encourages her, makes her jumpy in a way that her adrenaline is well pumped. Red lips graze the porcelain skin of their neck, their collarbones, leaving red lipstick stains in their wake, and the breathy moans escaping their mouth is music to her ears. She traces the jaw with more soft kisses until she lands on their own red lips again, capturing the sound of the undone Time Lord. 

The hand that’s brushed between their thighs finds the edge of their knickers and tugs the article off, and the cold air that hits their centre expels a desperate cry between more heated kisses. Yaz’s warm palm then presses against their pubic area—moans suppressed—and two fingers insert—God, that feels so, so  _ good _ —and when Yaz releases her hold of their mouth, the loud whimper escaping echoes throughout. 

With her hand well in between, she lifts the other between their lips.

“Shh, quiet!” she hisses playfully and moves back to shower more lipstick stains all over the Doctor’s jaw.

When her thumb touches their nub, the Doctor has their hands making a deathly grasp on Yaz’s shoulder, nails digging into her jacket; their hips bucked to the continuous deftly touch that Yaz conjures. Etched dilated pupils in half-lidded eyes are mischievous and leering as the Doctor trembles to the inserted fingers curling inside. 

They have to build up their voice, catching whatever coherent thoughts they could think of. Something about astrophysics.  _ Absorption spectra. Photons of specific frequency absorbed by cooler gas, and they leave a darker line on a background continuum region. _

“Yaz,” they say, stumbling even on the single syllable of her name. A Queen song rings in their head.  _ Don’t stop me now! I’m having such a good time, I’m having a ball…  _

“Seven minutes,” Yaz counts, eyes fluttering.

“I know.” They’re rocking against her hand, desperate for thrumming in them—and the sound of Freddie’s voice inside their head—to cave in.

_ I am a satellite, I’m out of control _

_ I’m a sex machine ready to reload _

_ Like an atom bomb about to _

_ oh, oh, oh, oh— _

And as if on cue, Yaz’s demanding voice whispers in their ear: “Come.”

It hits, finally—the Doctor’s head thumps on the tiled wall, a promise of a major concussion. Their legs reduce to a noodly, trembling mess. Arms quiver with the shock. Fingers clutch on the soft material of Yaz’s jacket. Teeth clench on their lower lip so hard the orange-ish hue that is their own blood oozes out, leaving a metallic yet tangy taste on their tongue. 

Yaz slides her free hand on their lipstick stained cheek, presses a soft, dulcet kiss on the bruised lip, and steals away the moan that dared escape their mouth. Withdrawing her occupied fingers between the Doctor’s thighs, her eyes spark at the sticky substance of the Time Lord’s climax coating them, and with a lewd glance, she laps it off clean.

As if nothing had happened before, she then casually checks her watch. “With three minutes to spare,” she cheers, a cheeky remark that would’ve baited the Doctor in a frisky fight of words, had it not been for the incredibly devastating high they’re recovering from. 

They’re fixing themself—tugging on their knickers and trousers sluggishly, shrugging their yellow braces back on their shoulders. They wonder how this affects their own relationship, cos obviously it is a bit far from platonic, if it ever was at all—

“We’ve got to get back,” Yaz tells them, “and stop hurting your head with those pandering thoughts. We can talk about it later in the TARDIS, can we?”

Why yes, yes, they could.

**Author's Note:**

> i don't have a beta reader so pls don't attack me for mistakes :((((


End file.
